I conducted my king on a grand tour (okay, a ho-hum tour) of Fernley, finishing at its crown jewel, the Walmart supermarket, where I led him up and down aisles, discussing the magnificent merchandise on display. He seemed reasonably impressed—mystified, but impressed—although once in a while snorted derisively, like when I pointed out the numerous lipsticks offered, or when I said customers paid money for bottled water.
Sensing he was tiring of that sport, I took the king back to my “horseless carriage,” to give him a thrill: a speedy, albeit prudent drive on our freeway. He tensed slightly as we gained speed up I-80’s ramp and merged into its typical, wild-hare traffic. But once we settled into the “slow” lane at seventy miles per hour, my king’s eyes brightened as he felt the delight we all feel at being speed demons.
Even so, I took the first available off-ramp, leading us back to Fernley, knowing I’d been a deficient host. “Would Your Majesty like to partake of food and drink?”
“That would be acceptable, Peasant. And you may accompany me.”
“It would be my honor, Sire.”
I thought a minute before realizing there was only one appropriate place to take my king—Round Table Pizza.
I led him to a secluded booth and left to order the pizza: a large one, topped by salami, ham, ground beef, sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, onions, bell peppers and black olives. (I considered pineapple, but decided that would be ridiculous.)
Returning to the table with a pitcher of ale and two beer mugs, I silently congratulated myself on choosing to dine at a pizza joint, since my king could eat with his fingers. Silverware might have seemed strange, difficult to manage, even tricky, for a medieval monarch. We shared the pizza and conversation, avoiding religion and politics.
Being an egotistical dolt, I spent most of that time telling about my life, boasting of marvels such as central heating, air conditioning and thermostats. Historians might slay me for overlooking an opportunity to advance our knowledge of a medieval king’s life and times. I can only limply apologize, and explain that, after all, I wasn’t used to royalty.
We started on a second flagon of ale when it occurred to me to ask the king how he liked the pizza.
“It’s filling,” he said.
“Yes,” I pressed, “but how does its flavor compare to Your Highness’s usual fare.”
Now, I should have realized that hounding a king in this fashion was not … er fashionable, and his reply was a bit testy, I fear.
“I would have preferred braised hummingbird hearts … Peasant.”
We dined in silence after that until finishing the second pitcher of ale, when my king explained with—I would like to think—some disappointment, “Merlin is tugging at my sleeve. I must leave soon.”
I mumbled something inadequate about being sorry to lose his company. The king brushed that aside. “You have shown me many memorable things, Peasant. In return, I shall tell you a secret.”
I leaned forward expectantly, indeed conspiratorially, awaiting his revelation. Was I going to learn about buried treasure, perhaps? Or a long-lost historic manuscript, maybe?
For the first time during his visit, he smiled, and there was a twinkle in my king’s eyes. “Reveal this to no one, Peasant, but … I envy you.” With that confession, he faded away, dissolving into thin air.
Upon my return home, the wife demanded in “that” voice—the one wives use when scolding their husbands—“Where’ve you been?”
I gave a courtly, sweeping bow, as if doffing a medieval cap with a feather in it, and replied imperiously. “To Walmart, milady.”
She just stared.
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